


Sounds of Comfort

by canimo



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: brief mention of death, brief mention of sad thoughts, bruce and clark being pals, kind of angst, kind of fluff, nothing too deep i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:50:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canimo/pseuds/canimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent may or may not secretly like heavy metal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds of Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> as requested by @starksnstripes on tumblr – Clark Kent + “i mean like i didn’t grow up on heavy metal but like-”
> 
> prompt from a post by slamilton (on tumblr) i can't get the link, the post's in the writing tag of my blog, the blog's linked at the end of the fic trust me on this
> 
> and pssh no it didn’t turn out kind of angsty whaaaaaat

When people looked at Clark Kent, they saw a sweet, do-no-wrong country boy. When people looked at Superman, they (well, a lot of them) saw a man who stood for justice and truth and honor. When people looked at someone listening to heavy metal, they saw a punk ass kid that was ready and willing to fight anything that breathed. 

Clark Kent managed to be himself, Superman, and a punk ass kid listening to metal all at once.

His parents listened to country music and classical and old rock and roll, and Clark did too. But once upon a time he had been a teenager who went to a public high school, who was going through more changes than everyone else, and had no one to talk to about it, and well, he had some pent up aggression. So when one of his classmates said something about buying an Iron Maiden record, Clark went and bought one too. He distinctly remembered hearing the opening notes of Ideas of March and smiling because this was exactly what he needed.

He never stopped listening after high school. On days when the media trashed him after he saved lives, or days when he couldn’t save enough lives, he took out a record and sat and listened. Sometimes he did chores, but his attention was focused solely on the loud guitar and deep bass and the constant pounding of drums. By the time the A side was done, he was loose enough to sing along quietly. When the B side was done, he was headbanging and playing his broom like a guitar. 

He didn’t listen to it as often now. He had the Justice League, other superheroes, friends who faced all the same things he did and they could help each other through it. In fact, he hadn’t listened to any metal for a solid two months. He felt pretty good.  
That was before the fight, however.

It was on a Friday evening. The fight was long and ended in some civilian casualties and Clark was guilty and angry and sad and a lot of other things so he pulled out his stack of records, pulled out Metallica. The first notes of Enter Sandman were comfortingly familiar, quiet before the rest of the instruments came in and shattered it. He turned the record player up loud and got a mop and a bucket out of the closet and began cleaning violently.

Twenty minutes in, he was so focused on the music that he didn’t hear his phone ringing. When he did catch sight of his phone lighting up, he slammed the mop into the bucket (the bucket tipped over but whatever, it was soap and water, everything would just be really clean now) and pushed the answer button harder than he needed to. “Yeah?” he said, then regretted it, because he sounded rude and inconsiderate. “Sorry, I’m-”

“Clark?” He sighed softly in relief when he recognized the voice. It was Bruce. He wouldn’t care if he sounded rude and inconsiderate. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. You seemed shaken up after the fight.”

“I was, but I’m okay now. Thank you for checking up on me,” Clark said, feeling considerably…better. Not happier, but better. “I’m sorry for running off so quickly.”

“We were fine, Diana handled the press,” Bruce said dismissively, still sounding vaguely concerned. He paused for a moment, then said, “If you don’t mind, what are you listening to?”

Clark felt heat rise to his face, and turned to look at his record player, still blaring Metallica at a very high volume. It’s not like he was deliberately hiding this habit from his friends, it was just a private and somewhat embarrassing thing. Clark rushed over to it, dodging soapy water and quickly saying, “Oh, just Metallica, I listened to this stuff as a kid-”

“You lived on a farm. Your country folk parents grew a child up on heavy metal?”

Clark winced and spun the volume knob. “I mean, I didn’t grow up on heavy metal, but as a teenager-”

“Are you telling me Clark Kent was a punk teenager listening to heavy metal.” He didn’t say it like it was a question.

Clark was about to explain that he listened to heavy metal when he was stressed or upset, how it was an outlet when he had no one else, but he heard the smile in Bruce’s voice and his pathetic attempts to stifle a giggle. A giggle from him wasn’t heard all that often. So who was Clark to dampen the mood and that wonderful laugh? 

Clark let himself smile, and said, “Yeah, I was a punk. Vandalized an old building once.”

Bruce let the giggle loose, and Clark’s smile widened. “No, you didn’t, and if you did, you’d go back a repair everything yourself.”

“Don’t tell anyone, Bruce, what would I do if the papers found out?”

“Edit them yourself, asshole.”

With the combination of Metallica playing in his left ear and Bruce’s snark in the right, Clark found his heart getting very light as the world outside became darker and darker.


End file.
